


The Land of Darkness

by SkadiLaughedFirst



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Angst and Porn, Human Sacrifice, Hurt No Comfort, Loki makes bad life choices, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Torture, Some Plot, past castration, slave!Loki, with Bruce Banner as Ibn Fadlan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkadiLaughedFirst/pseuds/SkadiLaughedFirst
Summary: Among the many strange customs of the Aesir, their funerals are the strangest of all.





	1. From the Journal of Bruce Banner, Gentleman Adventurer

**Author's Note:**

> So I think the sub-set of this fandom that reads "Loki suffering" type fics deserves a good old Viking funeral story, based on Ibn Fadlan's account. I've been kicking the idea around for a while and my lovely beta Wish_I_Had_A_Tail finally convinced me to start writing it. I don't usually write smut, so your comments will really be helpful on this one. 
> 
> For the later chapters, I'll include specific warnings in the author's notes. Please do mind those/the tags/the warnings. I've just accepted that I'm going to hell for this fic, and you are all welcome to join me for the ride.

Each day in this land leaves me convinced that a gate to the cold of hell has opened up and swallowed me. When snow falls, it is always accompanied by a rough and violent wind. In this country, when a man wishes to make a nice gesture to a friend and show his generosity, he says: ‘Come to my house where we can talk, for there is a good fire there.’ I’ve rarely heard this greeting since I took on one Stark as my guide. Among his people, he had told me, he had been a blacksmith engaged in the selling of iron. He had neglected to mention that the iron he’d sold had been swords and axes, and though he had once had commerce with every tribe along the Volga, each now begrudged him for arming their rivals twice so well – not to mention his more intimate dealings with the wives and daughters of several chieftains.

It was only among men as foreign to these parts as we were that we found our welcome. Steve Rogers, a Christian knight, and a one-handed giant of a man called Thanos had once served the emperor in Constantinople, and now followed their former captain, a sort of chieftain among the Aesir whom his own people call Jarl Odinson but whose given name is Thor. The Aesir raiding party was homeward-bound, bearing the wounded Jarl back from battle. Eager to learn of the customs of this distant people – and just as eager to make our way to lands where Stark’s reputation was not so well known – we joined them on their journey.

The rivers carried us until the waters froze, and our Aesir guides took axes to the ice and bade myself and Stark man the oars whilst they waged war against the winter. Thor to this solution only after I had dissuaded him from setting our own ship ablaze to thaw our way forward. They fought the snow stripped to the waist and wailing like devils, as fiercely as they had fought the Vanir, and defeated it just as soundly. Upon their ‘victory’ they presented me with trophies of shattered icicles to mount upon the drakkar’s prow. It was only through his comrade Rogers’ fervent pleas (and Thanos’ strong hand pinning him to his sickbed) that Thor himself was kept from the fray. 

Such displays have come to shock me less and less as my time with the Aesir continues. As I write, we dock in their capital of Asgard – if one can call this shanty-town strewn about a single wooden hall a city at all. The former Varangian guardsmen among the crew seemed to share my opinion, having after all seen cities with paved streets and sewage systems in their time. But for the sake of those Aesir-born, I admired that one hall with enough awe for all the mosques of Baghdad. My companion Stark made no such efforts.

Volstagg, as the largest of Thor’s housecarls, and Thanos, as the largest, bar none, hoisted the young Jarl up so he too could revel in the homecoming, but his eyes were fever-bright and if he recognized the place at all he gave no sign. I had told them, when the wound had first begun to fester and putresce, to take a hot knife and cut out the abscess. The Aesir had not seemed to understand, and Rogers only crossed himself with greater fervor. Only Thanos appeared intrigued at the prospect, though I am not certain his interest was purely scientific. In any case, it was too late now. By my reckoning, he would not last the week under the care of even the finest physician – and, frankly, not long past nightfall under my care. As he was lowered from the ship to where his father, wife, and sister waited, I could tell they knew the same.

Where I expected to see three grim faces, I saw two – and one alight with opportunity. The Lady Hela shed not a tear to see her brother at death’s door. From what the crew had whispered when they thought Thor well out of earshot, this did not surprise me overmuch. What did surprise me was the anguished howl that tore through the town as a slave-girl, and a favoured one, judging by the slender copper collar on her neck – and the swell of her belly – threw herself onto her master. She had only a few moments to weep before, at a gesture from the Lady Sif, a guardsman pulled her away. It seemed needlessly cruel to me, but Fandral assured me with an odd sort of smile that she would have time to mourn him later. 

As we came ashore, Stark related to me – again, somehow with even greater enthusiasm – his conversation with Heimdall with regards to the funeral customs of the Aesir. By his telling there is to be a grand feast and celebration to honour Thor’s life and passing. Stark was much enticed by the promise of liquor and lovemaking long into the night. I was somewhat more hesitant to speak so freely about the funeral arrangements of a man not yet dead, but it seemed I was in the minority. Before dusk, Thor’s funeral festivities were on every pair of lips in Asgard – save for one scarred set. 

The lips in question belonged to a slave who, unlike the girl who had wept over Thor, was not favoured at all. He – and I later confirmed with Heimdall that he was in fact a he, for a first glance at his beardless face and frail frame left some small doubt in my mind – skulked around the dockside. He did his best to keep out of sight of the housecarls as he worked to unload the spoils, but to little avail. Fandral was the first to spot him, and though the slave bowed so low his nose near grazed his knees it was not enough to spare him a beating. Heimdall gave me little enough by way of answer when I inquired why this slave was singled out for such ill treatment. Speaking of it seemed to bring him no small shame. 

Stark is convinced that it would be a great insult to the Aesir if we two were to continue our journey before Thor is set on his way to Valhalla. This, in their strange and shadowy faith, is the dwelling of the glorious dead where heroes feast. From what they have told me, it is a place that would suit Thor well. In his absence, there is little enough to keep me in this frigid place. I have seen already more than I had cared to see of the ways of the Aesir, and long to travel to lands yet undiscovered (and in warmer climes). But Stark is insistent, and after all, what harm can it do to enjoy one night’s revelry?


	2. A Glorious Death

Loki waited until nightfall before he dared come near the hall. Any sooner, and he’d risk another encounter with Thor’s housecarls. His jaw still smarted from Fandral’s greeting. He slung his hastily gathered firewood in a bundle over his shoulder. With any luck, the raiding party would be well into their ales by now and he could make his way to Thor’s bedside unnoticed. But luck had always been in short supply when it came to him. And so, on the steps leading up to the great hall sat none other than Thanos and Steve Rogers.

“It’s a fair question,” Thanos insisted. Steve braced himself with a generous swig from his drinking horn. 

“Thor still lives,” he said. “What kind of brothers in arms are we, to plan what adventures we’ll have after his death?”

“Practical ones,” Thanos shrugged. “Do you intend to stay here, serving Lady Hela or Jarl Odin? I, for one, have no desire to lose my other hand to a second Odinson blood feud.” He waved the bronze fist strapped to his left wrist for emphasis. Steve batted the hand away.

“What then?” he demanded. “Go home?” Thanos pursed his lips. Steve sighed. “I’m sorry, that was unnecessary. It’s hardly an option for me, either.” 

Thanos was no longer listening. “And what about you?” he called. Loki froze. “What will become of you once your brother sits in Valhalla?” 

Loki flinched. No one called them brothers anymore. Not even Thor. 

“Leave him be,” Steve muttered, and Loki hated how grateful he was at that moment – to Steve Rogers of all people. “What answer would satisfy you?”

“An answer would be enough,” Thanos snorted, not taking his eyes off Loki. “If he had the stones to give it.” Steve flushed red and turned back to his ale. Loki grit his teeth.

“Right now,” he said evenly, “I only want to bring him this firewood before he gets there.” 

Thanos was amused. “I’m glad a few stitches weren’t enough to silence that smart mouth for good,” he smirked. “I would have missed that silver tongue.”

Steve stood up abruptly, nearly spilling the last of his ale. He moved aggressively out of the way and gestured for Loki to pass. “On your way then,” he said firmly. Loki bowed his head and hurried into the hall. He’d almost made it past the feast when he felt a hand slink up his thigh and squeeze. 

“Slow down, beautiful,” the stranger slurred. “Why not rest here a while?” He patted his lap suggestively. Loki took a steadying breath. 

“Excuse me,” he muttered. The hand disappeared at the sound of his voice. Loki sped away.

“Stark! We are guests here,” a voice from behind him hissed. “Control yourself. You are drunk. That is a man.”

Beyond the main hall, the house was quiet. Light peeked out from under a single doorframe. As Loki stepped inside, he saw Jane and the Lady Sif seated at a small fire. Thor’s sword lay in Sif’s lap, glinting red in the firelight as she ran a whetstone along the graceful blade. Behind them, Thor lay barely breathing. No one looked up at Loki’s entry. He set the firewood down beside Jane, trying not to linger on the tear tracks down her cheeks.

“It’s a great honour,” Sif said gently. “You’ll serve him as I cannot – standing by his side in the hall of heroes until the end of days.”

“I’m afraid,” Jane whimpered. “Couldn’t someone else –”

Sif cut her off. “It’s to be you, Jane,” she said with finality. “I haven’t the strength for more of this talk.” She stood, the sword in hand, and perched at Thor’s bedside. “Husband,” she said hoarsely, taking his hand in hers. Thor’s eyes fluttered open. “Are you ready?” Thor was about to nod when he saw Loki standing by the fire. 

“Not yet,” he said, and each word seemed to cost him. Sif looked over her shoulder to follow his gaze and scowled. Thor squeezed her hand. “It’s alright,” he told her. “What do you want, Loki?”

The word escaped him, as most words did, before he’d had a chance to think it through. “Forgiveness.” 

Thor laughed. It dissolved into a sputtering cough. “Loki, please,” he whined, falling back onto his pillow. “Don’t joke.”

It hurt, but Loki hid the expected pain behind a soft smile. “I thought I’d ask, at least,” he said lightly, “While I still could. It’s not as if we’ll have an eternity in Valhalla to right all the wrongs between us.”

“No,” Thor agreed. Loki wanted to believe he sounded sad. “Though,” he added, barely louder than a whisper. “Sometimes I wish we did.”

“Eternity wouldn’t be enough,” Sif told Loki, dismissing him. “They’ll be wanting more ale in the feasting hall.” 

Loki did not leave, did not bow or given any other hint that he had heard her. He stood stiffly in the center of the room and met Thor’s eye. “You wouldn’t turn me away, then?” he asked hesitantly. “If I found my own way to follow you to the golden hall, you wouldn’t bar the doors?”

Thor frowned. “What scheme is this?” he wondered, suddenly suspicious. 

“Not all glorious deaths are won in battle,” Loki murmured. “And there are ways even for slaves to die with honour.” He glanced meaningfully at Jane by the fire. She had stopped crying, and studied them both with disbelief in her reddened eyes. 

“Are you mad?” Thor hissed.

“You’d rather force her to follow you?” Loki argued. “What, the mighty Odinson must take not one, but two lives with him?”

“Shut up,” Thor barked. “It shouldn’t be you and, and,” he struggled, anger chasing disgust across his pale face. “And I don’t want you.”

Loki’s spirits sank. “Why?” he demanded, unable to keep his voice steady any longer. “Do you think me beneath even that ‘honour’ now?”

“I don’t know what to think of you,” Thor snapped. “I thought I would come home to find my brother, not to bury a mother your war had slain. I hoped to drink away the memories of my exile by his side, not to meet you in battle. You stole my home from me, Loki. And after all that wrong you’d still think to use my death to trick your way into Valhalla?”

“You say that as though you’ve never wronged me,” Loki snarled. The firelight glanced off of the thin white scars lacing his lips.

“A punishment is not the same,” Thor began. Loki didn’t let him finish.

“And Sigyn? And Vali and Narvi?” His voice caught on the names and pulled something dark and ugly from his heart. “Surely their deaths were a just punishment.” Thor had the decency to look ashamed. “I may have brought this family blood,” Loki said after a pause. “But you have done no better. All I ask is a chance for a good death. Will you grant me this?”

“Loki,” Thor coughed. Instead of an answer he hissed and pressed a shaking hand to his wound. “It… I’m not for much longer.” Sif reached over to feel Thor’s pulse. It fluttered weakly against the burning skin of his throat. 

“It’s time,” she said firmly. She called Jane over and between the two of them they propped Thor up against the pillows. Jane knelt by his side, cradling his hand in hers. Sif stood and adjusted her grip on the sword. She raised the blade above Thor’s breast. As the steel flinched forward and Thor closed his eyes, Loki grabbed Sif’s wrist mid-stroke. The sword stopped. Loki stepped between it and Thor. Sif snarled furiously, ready to run him through.

“Wait,” Loki’s voice was cold and steady. He spoke to Thor, who glared up at him with glassy eyes. “Give me your answer.”

“Get out of the way and let her strike me true,” Thor growled. “Or it’s to Nifleheim you’ll follow me.”

“Your word,” Loki pressed him. Sif tried to push him aside, but he bowed his head against the blow and held his ground. 

“I won’t help you,” Thor said at last. “But neither will I stop you. Take your chance, and if the Norns see fit to find you worthy I – I’ll be glad of it.” Loki let out the breath that had been choking him. “Now by all the gods, move.”

Loki stepped aside. Sif raised the sword again, her jaw clenched tight.

“May Valhalla throw her doors open wide for you,” she said solemnly. In a single fluid stroke, she plunged the sword through his heart. A pained breath rattled out of him and Thor went still. Loki saw the light leave his eyes. Though the fire was still burning, a heavy cold settled over the room. “And may your cup be full until the end of days,” Sif finished.

By the body, Jane took his cooling hand in hers and kissed it, and gently closed his eyes. “Good bye, my love,” she whispered. “My sweet.”

“May the sun shine on us again,” Loki said. Sif set the bloody blade down beside Thor’s right hand. 

“I should stop you,” she told Loki. “This plan of yours is a foul thing.”

“Will you?”

Sif was silent as she watched Jane weep. “Lorithi didn’t last the night, when he was born,” she said. Her voice was husky with tears long since shed. “And when Ullr came, he was already cold. I felt him cold inside me. I never had the chance to even name the others. If the gods let me hold Thor’s son, and the price they ask is your shame,” she met Loki’s eye. “I won’t stop you from paying it.”


	3. From the Journal of Bruce Banner, Gentleman Adventurer

It is a grim start to the festivities – though knowing somewhat better now what they entail I hesitate to call them such. When – if – Stark recovers from the effects of the past night’s merry-making, he shall hear some choice words about his insistence to stay throughout the funeral proceedings. But by the rules of hospitality and the bitter winter’s bite, we are now bound to see them through. 

Word of Thor’s death reached his household late into the night, and though the housecarls celebrated its worthy glory long into the morning, when they rose they greeted the news with such displays of grief as would make funeral criers blush. They threw their weapons to the ground, tore at their fine clothes and beards and smeared soot and ash upon their faces. In comparison, the Lady Hela took the news with almost offensive grace. 

Soon, she had the hall draped in every finery this simple place could muster and odors which Heimdall assured me were delicious started emanating from the hearth and cookhouse. Then Lady Hela gathered the household around her and called for Thor’s slaves to be brought before her. These numbered some fifteen men and women, most already weary from the morning’s busy work. Chief among them stood a woman with a warrior’s build, who stank so strongly of spirits that it near rendered me senseless. Valkyrie, the Lady Hela called her. She bade the slave-girls stand to one end of the hall, apart from the men, and asked with great formality which among them would die with Thor and follow him into the realm eternal.  
The expected answer was clear, and the favoured slave-girl was already being forced forward when a burst of laughter from the housecarls interrupted the solemnities. It seemed the scar-lipped slave had gone to stand with the women folk, which caused the warriors some great merriment. Their mirth was somewhat lessened, though, when this same slave stepped forward and announced that he would follow his master to Valhalla. 

I have never heard a silence as furious as that which filled the hall at his pronouncement. Fandral was the first to recover his wits and in rather strong words voiced the impropriety of the proposition. Here I must interject and make clear that, while this whole business of a slave burning on their master’s pyre to serve him in the afterlife is a barbaric notion, I could imagine a true and loyal people such as the Aesir ascribing some nobility to the act. Fandral’s complaint, echoed by the men of the household at large, shattered any notion of quiet dignity I might have hoped for. As they explained – in more detail than I care to relate – the necessity for a female slave, I soon wished I had never learned this cursed northern tongue, than I might remain in blissful ignorance a while longer. 

In brief, the slave was found anatomically wanting, even accounting for, quote, ‘Rogers’ adjustments’ – whose nature my readers will doubtless have guessed at by now. Rogers himself appeared to agree with the housecarls, though his tone was closer to pleading. Thanos, for his part, disagreed entirely, and made his preference loudly known, much to the Lady Hela’s frustration. She turned then to her father, evidently hoping Jarl Odin could return some semblance of sense to the situation.  
At first, Jarl Odin appeared not to hear her, but when the Lady Hela repeated herself he merely waved her away and stood to approach the scar-lipped slave. I cannot tell what passed between them for it was not said with words. The old Jarl nodded curtly, and the slave regarded him with what I can only describe as gratitude, though the sentiment seemed entirely out of place given what the Jarl had ‘permitted’ him to endure. 

Valkyrie led him away then, to be bathed and dressed for feast. The household dispersed soon after and all afternoon I’ve heard nothing but the housecarls grumbling. Heimdall approached Stark and myself some hours past to inquire whether we two would partake in the carnal aspects of the celebration, as he worried that not enough of the Aesir warriors will do so. A man of Thor’s standing should be sent to Valhalla with many, many men’s love, he told us. I declined for us both. Still, I fear it shall be a trying night, as Stark is asking far too many questions about the ritual and the slave in question for my liking. For now, however, I wish nothing more than to put the unpleasantness from my mind and listen to the Lady Sif describe her people’s artistry in weaving and beadwork. I can only pray that nothing so discomfiting as this morning’s events can come from talk of fine fabrics and pretty dresses.


	4. Clothes Maketh the Man

Loki stood naked and dripping in the small side room where he would spend his final hours. The room itself was warm enough and brightly lit by a metal brazier burning by the bed. Rich wall hangings and finely woven covers lent the space a beguiling softness. It looked like a princess’s bedchamber, and left Loki feeling distinctly out of place. The delicate dress in Valkyrie’s hands certainly didn’t help.

“Alright,” Valkyrie huffed, shaking out the fabric. Glass and amber beads glittered down the fine blue cloth. She laid it in a puddle at Loki’s feet. He stepped into it and pulled the skirt up roughly. “Careful!” Valkyrie smacked his hands back and eased his arms into the tight sleeves. 

“It might fit better if it did rip,” Loki grumbled, wriggling the dress over his shoulders. The too-short sleeves cut into his forearms and the seams pressed against his collarbone, stretching dangerously. The rest of the gown billowed loosely around his bony figure and ended midway down his shins. He looked up at Valkyrie for confirmation.

“If you’re lucky,” she said seriously, “the dress’ll be the only thing that rips tonight.”

Loki frowned. “Don’t try to frighten me,” he said. “I’ve been to one of these before. I know what they’ll do.”

Valkyrie crossed her arms. “Oh, you know, do you? You know what they’ll do?”

“I,” Loki faltered. “Yes? I can’t imagine it’s changed all that much.”

“I’ll bet the girl you fucked at Njordr’s funeral hadn’t slaughtered half your friends in open battle,” Valkyrie pointed out. “And she was, in fact, a girl, wasn’t she? I’m sure that made things somewhat easier.” Noticing Loki’s expression, Valkyrie reached into a small chest by the wall and produced a cloudy glass vial. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “You’ll need this.”

Loki took the vial and set it on the bedframe. “Thanks,” he said quietly. When he turned again to face her, Valkyrie was holding a second, much larger bottle.

“You may want to get started on this,” she offered. She pulled out the cork and Loki reeled at the smell. “From my own stores,” she boasted. “You’re welcome. Or, if you think you’ll need something stronger…?” 

“I’ll manage,” Loki said sharply. Still, he took the proffered bottle. The first swig left a lingering burn. The second was somehow worse. He made to hand the liquor back but Valkyrie shook her head.

“More,” she insisted. “I don’t want you trying to run.”

“I won’t run,” Loki assured her. He took another long drink all the same. 

“I should hope not.” Hela stood in the doorway, a neat, green bundle in her arms. Her tone was icy cold. Valkyrie greeted her with a short bow and Loki followed, somewhat more unsteadily. He’d remembered being able to hold his drink better. Hela regarded him with disdain. “I truly thought you could fall no lower,” she remarked. 

“I’ve spent a lifetime proving you wrong,” Loki threw back and, gods, what had Valkyrie made him drink? “Why stop now?” Hela’s eyes narrowed.

“Why indeed,” she echoed. “I’ve brought you something. A parting gift, of sorts.” She strode up to Loki and shoved the bundle against his chest. “These will suit you better, I trust.” Loki recognized the clothes even before he unfolded them. A red embroidered serpent chased its tail along the hem of the soft, green tunic. He turned the cloth over in his hands and found the few uneven stitches by the snake’s eye where Sigyn had mended it. Hela watched his face hungrily. “The trousers may be loose in places,” she added. “But I’m sure they’ll be more comfortable than that.” She picked at the neckline of the ill-fitting dress. 

“Thank you, Lady Hela,” Valkyrie said quickly, before Loki could say something they’d both regret. “I’ll have him ready soon.”

“Be sure that you do,” Hela cautioned. “Some of the men are getting restless.”

“I didn’t think the housecarls were all that eager,” Valkyrie said dryly.

“Not the housecarls, no,” Hela answered evenly. A clatter from the feasting hall distracted her. “Be quick,” she reiterated as she swept out of the room. Valkyrie bowed again, keeping her head low until Hela was out of sight. She didn’t bother hiding her grimace when she straightened up. 

“Hag,” she muttered. She turned to Loki. “Let’s get this off you then,” she began, but stopped short when she saw him still looking down at the tunic. He held it close to his chest. “Loki?” she laid a hand on his arm. Loki flinched, and as he glanced up she saw his cheeks were wet. Gently, she took the clothing from him. “She told us to be quick.”

After a moment, Loki nodded and briskly wiped his eyes. Valkyrie helped him out of the dress and slipped the tunic over his head. It hung loosely off his too-thin shoulders. She led him to the bed and sat him down. As Loki pulled on the trousers she pulled a comb off of the chain pinned to her dress. “Let’s see what we can do about your hair.”


	5. Hands-On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we go, into the land of non-con smut. Comments bring me unspeakable joy, especially comments that tell me what pairings you'd like next. I promise, not all of them will go this badly for Loki. Chapter-specific warnings below.
> 
> Warnings: anal and oral rape, blood and violence, humiliation, explicit reference to castration, "fisting" I guess, sexual violence/injury, choking

The mood of the feasting hall was much lighter than when Loki had left it that morning. Food and ale were plentiful and the housecarls seemed happy enough to let him sit by them as they indulged in both. Valkyrie stayed by his side, forcing ale into his hand until the room swayed. He looked up and down the table at the laughing faces, wondering – dreading – which would be the first to stand. Fandral and Volstagg pointedly ignored him, but Heimdall nodded politely back when their eyes met. The two foreign strangers seated at the end of the table – Stark and Banner, he’d heard them called – were equally courteous. And Steve Rogers was nowhere in sight. Between that and the pleasant, drunken warmth, he could almost relax.

Suddenly, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He jumped at the touch. Taking a steadying breath, he turned to look at the man behind him and his stomach clenched. Thanos’ bronze prosthesis gleamed in the firelight, and Loki saw his own paling face reflected in the multicoloured jewels adorning the knuckles. 

“Shall we?” Thanos rumbled. Loki’s knees turned to water. Valkyrie nudged him insistently, and Thanos’ other hand hitched under Loki’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Loki had to crane his neck to look him in the face. He wished he hadn’t. Thanos’ easy smile made him shudder. They left the table to the cheers and jeers of the housecarls, with Valkyrie ghosting close behind them. She stopped at the door to the side room and drew the thin curtain closed, leaving them alone. 

“I had a wager with Fandral whether they’d put you in a dress,” Thanos said, his eyes roaming freely up and down Loki’s body. “I have never been so happy to be wrong. Tell me, when was the last time you looked like this?” He took a decisive step forward. “Was it when we fought?”

Loki said nothing, but Thanos looked at him expectantly. “I suppose, yes,” he managed. “I don’t remember.”

“Take them off.”

Loki fumbled with the belt buckle and set aside the leather cord. He reached for the hem of the tunic and started to lift it over his head. 

“Slower,” Thanos ordered.

He grit his teeth and complied. Thanos admired each new inch of pale flesh. Loki set the tunic aside and paused. Thanos gestured for him to continue. Nervously, Loki unlaced the trousers. It was one thing for Valkyrie to see him as he bathed. The way that Thanos looked at him – all of him – was entirely different. Thanos closed the distance between them. His good hand traced down Loki’s belly; Loki braced himself when he felt the hand go lower.

“They did a clean job,” Thanos commented, brushing Loki’s limp penis aside to run his fingers over the scar below. Loki shuddered at the touch. “Sometimes,” he confessed, “I can still feel my hand, almost as if it was still there.” His eyes flickered up. “Is it  
the same for you?”

Loki shook his head helplessly and tried to step away. Thanos would have none of that. Firmly, he spun Loki around and pushed him onto the bed, hard enough that he stumbled onto his knees and caught himself with his hands. His heart was racing. He heard a rustle of cloth behind him as Thanos began to unfasten his belt.

“I have seen many a foreign custom in my travels,” Thanos began. “Some stranger and more unpleasant than others. But the common thread that tied them all together was duty.” The belt clattered to the floor. Loki tried to look over his shoulder, but Thanos pressed his bronze hand against his cheek and forced his gaze forward. The metal was cool against his flushed face. “Responsibility.” Thanos sighed as he eased himself out of his trousers. His heart in his throat, Loki looked back again.  
He clenched reflexively. Wholly proportionate to the man’s enormous build, Thanos’ fully erect cock twitched with excitement. He smiled broadly when he saw Loki’s eyes widen. After letting him look his fill, Thanos turned him to face the wall again, this time more forcefully. 

“No matter how barbaric a man’s traditions, he is always bound by obligation to his people. It’s something you never understood.” Loki felt a warm hand on the small of his back, and a second, colder hand on his hip. With trembling hands, he reached for the vial and offered it to Thanos. He heard a soft chuckle as he took it from him. Then the sound of breaking glass. A few sharp shards struck his right side, and the remaining oil dripped out of Thanos’ fist onto Loki’s hip. 

“Wait,” Loki exclaimed, panicked. He lurched forward but Thanos dropped the broken vial on the bed and grabbed Loki’s freshly braided hair, yanking him back into place. Loki whimpered as his knee landed on the shards. 

“The burden of duty,” Thanos continued, a slight hitch in his voice, “is not always easy to bear. But it is every man’s to bear regardless. It is rare that what a man wants to do and what a man must do coincide.” He positioned himself behind Loki, the warm, slick head pressing up against Loki’s entrance.

“But sometimes, they line up perfectly.”

Loki opened his mouth to plead once more, but Thanos didn’t give him the chance. He thrust forward and Loki choked back a sob. Thanos groaned with satisfaction and pulled himself out slowly, almost in his entirety, before forcefully sliding back in. He rocked back and forth in short spurts, easing his way in deeper until Loki felt his belly flush against him. Loki tried to relax his muscles until he could almost accommodate the small motions. Then Thanos pulled back out again.  
This time he rammed into him with his entire length and Loki couldn’t hold back his cry of pain. It was drowned out by Thanos’ cry of pleasure. He dropped Loki’s braid and clamped a bruising grip on his hip for leverage. Loki’s head fell forward and he pressed his face into the covers. His hands wrung the sheets. Having found his rhythm, Thanos sped up his pace.

“Slow down,” Loki begged him. “Please.” 

“Why?” Thanos asked breathily. 

“It hurts,” Loki panted. Thanos grunted. That almost seemed to encourage him. He kept up the punishing pace and all Loki could do was bite down on the blankets and endure. Abruptly, Thanos pulled out all at once. Loki gasped at the sudden emptiness but didn’t have too long to recover. 

“On your back,” Thanos said gruffly, pushing Loki onto his side. Gingerly, Loki tried to obey. Clearly, he wasn’t quick enough for Thanos, who grabbed his ankles and pulled him into position. He smiled to see Loki’s face, and leaned down to wipe the tears from his eyes. Then his hand reached down to guide his cock.

“Please,” Loki tried again as he felt Thanos prod against him once more. He placed a hand on the broad shoulder above him. “Wait. Stop. I – I can’t…”

“I can,” Thanos assured him. He lowered his bronze hand and placed the palm on Loki’s throat. Loki coughed and sputtered, but the pressure just increased. Thanos allowed him only shallow breaths as he entered him once more. Loki clawed at Thanos’ shoulders. The metal dug deeper against his windpipe and Thanos gave him a reproachful look. Loki dropped his hands to his sides and sucked in a grateful breath as the weight lifted. He looked up with watery eyes and the expression sent Thanos over the edge. He buried himself deep as he came, and Loki felt the spurt of heat sting his raw insides. He went limp with relief. It was over. 

Thanos slid his cock out and gave it a few firm strokes, sending thin, white ropes splattering across Loki’s stomach. Spent, he lay down beside him and propped himself up on his elbow. His false hand slipped down from Loki’s throat to rest possessively on his chest. Loki stayed as still as he could, barely breathing, hoping he would leave soon.

“Seeing you like this, it’s difficult to believe you’re the same man I met on the field. It hasn’t even been that long, has it? Two years?” Thanos waited for an answer. 

“Three this spring,” Loki said softly. He felt his heart hammer against the metal hand. Why wasn’t he leaving? 

“It was a foolish little war you started. What did you think you would win? A crown? Is that what you think gives a man his worth?” Loki stayed silent. It was answer enough. “What good is a crown that sits on an empty head? I, too, lost everything once. My home, my wealth, my…” he trailed off. “Everything I cherished. Why do you think I followed your brother to this frozen wasteland? But even when everything was taken from me, I still had my principles. My convictions. What they couldn’t take from me – what no one can ever take from me – was that I was right.” Loki turned his head sharply to glare at Thanos. His nostrils flared. “What do you have?” Thanos mocked. And it might have been the liquor, or the pain, or just hearing the plain truth spoken aloud, but Loki just couldn’t help himself.

“I have two hands,” he pointed out. “And the satisfaction of having taken one of yours.” Thanos’ easy expression fell, and anger clouded his features. He sat up swiftly. Loki realized too late his mistake as Thanos loosened the strap that held his prosthetic in place. The bronze lump struck the bedframe by Loki’s head and he flinched away. 

“This hand?” he growled, holding up the stump. Loki tried to scamper back but Thanos had already climbed on top of him. He shoved Loki’s legs apart and got between them, bracing himself with a rough hand on Loki’s shoulder. He pressed his full weight down and Loki felt the bones beneath that hand grind dangerously. He tried to twist away, or grab at Thanos’ wrist, but any motion only brought him more pain. 

“Satisfaction?” Thanos hissed, leaning low enough for Loki to feel his breath on his cheek. “Let’s see how satisfied you are with your handiwork.” He brought the stump up to Loki’s lips. “Lick,” he said. Loki froze when he realized his intent. He shook his head desperately.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, tripping over the words. “Please, don’t –”

“You’d rather take it dry?” Thanos drawled. Loki could only keep shaking his head. “Lick.” The stump rested on his lower lip, weighing it down until Loki let his mouth fall open. He licked and tasted sweat. His dry tongue caught on the ridges the stitches had left behind. When the limb was slick enough for Thanos’ liking, he drew it back. Never once looking away from Loki’s face, he lowered it between his thighs.

“Please, I’m begging you,” Loki’s voice broke.

“I can see that,” Thanos said mildly. He flexed his arm, driving it forward, and Loki screamed. He arched off the bed, his vision going white with pain. Thanos twisted his wrist and pumped his shoulder two more times before he raised the hand keeping Loki down. He sat back, his stump now smeared with blood, and watched Loki break and weep. 

Loki curled up on his side, wincing as the torn flesh rubbed against itself. There was no relief. He tried not to move so as not to make it worse, but he couldn’t hold back the sobs that wracked his body. Dimly, he was aware of Thanos shifting on the bed. His eyes strained in their sockets to see what was happening and, to his horror, he saw that Thanos was once again half-hard. 

“Please,” he keened. “No more. No more.”

“Easy,” Thanos said, placing a hand lightly on Loki’s rear. Panicking, Loki bucked away from the touch.

“Calm down,” he chuckled. “I can see you’ve had enough of that.”

Loki sagged with relief. “Thank you,” he whispered tearfully. 

“Is that the best thanks that smart mouth can come up with?” Thanos patted Loki once more and stood, coming around the bed to face him. “On your knees.”

Loki balked. “You said –” 

“I said you’d had enough of that,” Thanos clarified, gesturing at the bloodied sheets. “I didn’t say we were finished. Unless you’d rather –”

“No!” Moving as quickly as he could, Loki raised himself to his hands and knees and slid off the bed. He knelt in front of Thanos and hesitated, looking at the swollen girth. Afraid that Thanos would change his mind, he opened his mouth and swallowed him down as best he could. Thanos moaned, which Loki took for a good sign. He sucked harder and lapped his tongue along the shaft in long, wet strokes. For a moment it seemed that Thanos was content to let him work at his own pace, but then a hand wrapped itself in Loki’s hair and tilted his head back. The thrusts grew deeper, faster, as Thanos took control. 

Loki’s eyes watered as he struggled to breathe. He gagged and felt the acid sting of the ale burning its way back up his gullet. His throat spasmed around Thanos’ cock, which earned him another grunt of pleasure. He fought the instinct to push away and held onto Thanos’ thighs to keep his hands busy. The sounds grew more and more frequent, more urgent, until Thanos came with a final thrust. He held Loki in place until he’d swallowed the last of it, then released the grip on his hair and let him fall at his feet. 

“Give your master my love,” Thanos said, lacing up his trousers. “If you ever make it to your Valhalla.” Loki heard him dress and walk over to the bed to retrieve his hand. He left without another word. On the ground, shaking, Loki listened to his fading footsteps. This was only the first of who knew how many. Each sound from the hall beyond made his stomach churn as, unbidden, his thoughts turned to which of them would come next. And what they would do. Worthy death be damned, he couldn’t bear any more.


	6. That's Not Comfort, That's Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: Blood and injury, forced drug use.

Valkyrie leaned against the doorframe, picking at her nails. She heard the curtain swish aside and glanced up to see Thanos leaving. He nodded politely at her and continued on back to the feast. Valkyrie resumed picking at a stubborn stain on her thumb. Then, frowning, she looked back up at Thanos. This time the bloody stump did not escape her notice.

Shit. 

Steeling herself, she darted into the room. The bed was empty, save for the rumpled blankets and a few dark stains. Then someone whimpered from the floor. Reluctantly, she looked down towards the sound. 

“Nidhogg’s balls,” she breathed. “I gave you oil.” She couldn’t make out Loki’s answer, but the broken glass on the bed and in his knee gave her some idea. “What could you possibly have said to him?”

Loki just lay there, trembling. Valkyrie shook her head incredulously. “I’ll fetch you some water,” she told him. “And a cloth.” She went to the corner where a silver basin sat ready. As she filled it and reached into the chest for a towel, she heard a scuffling sound behind her. She whipped around and saw Loki crawling on his belly, painfully making for the door at a pathetic pace. Groaning with pity and frustration both, she crossed the room and easily barred his way. He stopped and looked up at her miserably.

“I was wrong,” he said brokenly. “I changed my mind. I want to go.”

“You said you wouldn’t run,” she reminded him.

“I can’t even stand,” he laughed weakly. It ended in a sob. Valkyrie’s stomach turned just to look at him. She crouched down beside him.

“Listen,” she said, trying to sound comforting. “The worst is over. They won’t all be like that.”

“How do you know?”

“Well,” she sighed. “At the very least, they’ll be smaller.” His face crumpled. “Hey,” she soothed. “I’m going to give you something. It’ll make it better, I promise.”

“I don’t want to anymore. I didn’t think –”

“You never do,” she reminded him. “Lucky for you, I planned ahead.” She reached for the pouch hanging at her belt. “Stay there,” she said firmly, heading back to the basin.

The moment she turned around, Loki grit his teeth and forced himself up to his knees. The pieces of glass dug deeper under his skin as he tried to get to his feet. He had managed to get one foot on the ground when the curtain in front of him slid open. Steve Rogers looked down at him, his confused expression turning appalled as he took in Loki’s state.

“Just a moment!” Valkyrie hurried to close the curtain. The goblet in her hand sloshed at her erratic movements. Unable to stay upright, Loki dropped back down to his hands and knees. His shoulders shook as hot tears dripped down his nose. Valkyrie quickly stirred the contents of her pouch into the goblet and knelt down beside him. “Drink it,” she told him, bringing the draught up to his lips. Loki shook his head.

“No,” he mumbled. “No, I’m –” With a desperate burst of strength he lurched past her, finally getting to his feet. He shuffled forward a few agonizing steps before Valkyrie caught him. She pinned his arms behind him and marched him to the bed, careful not to knock over the goblet she had placed on the ground. She sat him gently on the bed and eased him onto his side. 

“Stop fighting me,” she warned him, reaching for the goblet. “Drink.” He clamped his lips in a final protest. “You’re not leaving this room,” she informed him. When his mouth stayed closed, she pinched his nose shut. He struggled until he had no choice but to gasp for air. She poured the tincture down his throat. It tasted sweet, and a few drops dribbled out the corners of his mouth. Valkyrie held him tight until he’d swallowed it down. She reached for the cloth and started cleaning him as she waited for the effects to take hold.


	7. Give and Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been an age. But I'm totally done being a terrible excuse for a human yet. So here's another chapter. Comments are lovely. Tell me what terrible experience you'd like Loki to have next.
> 
> Warnings: Coercion, humiliation, dirty talk, submission, blood

Steve had gone back to the feast, though to a different seat than he’d held before. Thanos was sitting next to that one. And seeing what he’d just seen, it would be a long time before he could stomach the thought of sharing a drink with that man. He clenched his fist and knocked it against the table. He’d shared meals with Thanos, fought and bled beside him. It was a sickly, familiar feeling to realize that – once again – he had called a monster friend. Only Thor had been both a comrade to him and a decent man. Or perhaps, Steve mused bitterly, he’d simply died before the darkness in his soul could show. He banished the thought as quick as it had come. 

“Rogers!” He heard his name, and turned to see Valkyrie approaching. “He’s ready now,” she nodded towards the curtained room. “If you still want him.” Steve felt the flush creep up his neck.

“That’s not,” he stammered. “I only wanted to see if – I saw Thanos coming out and I just wanted to know –”

“He’s alright now,” Valkyrie assured him.

“How could he possibly be alright?” Steve reeled. “How can you let this continue? Not just let it, but come out here and invite me to –” He shuddered.

“Will of the gods,” Valkyrie answered without answering. She looked pointedly at the housecarls seated around the room. “They all saw you walk up. They won’t go until you’ve had your turn. Or should I just hurry things along and tell them you had no love for Thor?” Steve dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. But he stood, and followed.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked her under his breath.

“It’s a funeral,” she said, skirting the question. She held the curtain open for him. “Someone has to.”

Loki was waiting for him on the bed, lying on his side and mercifully clothed. The fear and pain that had distorted his face before were gone, replaced with darkened eyes and a pleasantly blank smile. He blinked blearily when he saw Steve enter and he slurred a slow, “Come in.”

Steve moved to sit on the bed beside him. Mumbling half-formed words to himself, Loki rolled onto his belly and started peeling off his trousers. Steve put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Wait,” he said. Loki’s head flopped to the side to look at him.

“S-slower?” he asked. His eyes wouldn’t quite focus.

“Just,” Steve forced himself to pause. And breathe. “Wait.” Loki seemed to understand. At the very least, he stopped trying to undress. He simply lay there, watching placidly.

“Do you want this?” Steve asked him. “Any of this?” A nagging doubt gnawed at him. “Can you still want this?” Loki frowned in confusion as Steve tried to explain. “At the monastery, some of them cut themselves to keep from wanting such things. Because after, they said, they felt no pleasure from it. Nothing impure to keep them from their prayers.”

“But I wasn’t praying,” Loki said, brow furrowing.

“No, you weren’t.” Bitter guilt twisted in Steve’s gut. “I never meant to take so much from you.”

“What do you think I have left?” Loki wondered aloud. Steve gaped at him.

“Your life?” He was less certain of the answer now that he heard himself say it. And less certain still when Loki only laughed.

“They wanted to tie a goat to your balls,” Steve insisted, “and let it drag you around town until they tore off. At best, you’d have bled out then and there.” He stopped, suddenly sick. “Would you have wanted that?” he asked, dreading the answer. “Rather than this?”

The question reached Loki as if from very far away. It felt cold against the pleasant haze that shrouded him. Uncomfortable. He shook his head, willing it away. The bed sagged as Steve breathed a sigh of relief behind him. Loki turned to look up at him. Steve’s eyes had always seemed kind, even when he’d stood over Loki with the knife. Even when Loki had struggled, bound and gagged. In the memory, the eyes were always kind. And the sight now didn’t fill him with as much fear as Thanos’ smile. Loki shifted and reached for the new bottle of oil Valkyrie had left on the bed. He placed it in Steve’s lap and let his hand linger. 

“Loki – no,” Steve said stiffly. He wrapped his hand easily around Loki’s bony wrist. “We don’t have to. I’ll wait here a while longer and let them think what they will. I won’t hurt you. Not again.”

But to his surprise, Loki did not look relieved. He tried to pull out of Steve’s grip, and when he let him, he slid painstakingly off the bed to kneel at Steve’s feet. He leaned on Steve’s knees to steady himself, and winced as his abused body adjusted to the new position. Steve froze, horrified. 

“Please.” Loki’s voice was hoarse. “There is no better death for me than this.”

“Why does it have to be death?” Steve snapped. “And why…” he picked up the bottle in his lap and brandished it at Loki. “Why this?”

“Because I have no worth or glory of my own,” Loki admitted. Somehow – even now – his face flushed to say it out loud. “And no other way into Valhalla.” He looked up at Steve, angry and pleading. “Would you take that from me, too?”  
Steve was at a loss. Loki took his silence as permission and reached for the laces of his britches. Sick with himself, Steve didn’t stop him. 

“I can’t,” he said thickly, as Loki’s fingers brushed against his soft length. “I won’t be able to – ” he gasped as Loki ducked his head and licked a long, wet stripe. Still, even when Loki took him in his mouth, it wasn’t enough. He watched the dark hair bob between his legs, not aroused so much as detached. A part of him still wanted to push Loki away and make for the door. But another part remembered.

I am yours. 

He didn’t think, only reached to touch the black locks. Loki stilled, waiting, but when Steve did nothing more than run his fingers through the tresses, he continued. The strands of hair caught on Steve’s rough skin and drew him back to a life long past. He remembered her. Secret kisses in darkened doorways. In her marriage bed. Her hair had been dark, too. 

Steve tapped Loki’s shoulder. Reluctantly, Loki stopped and sat back on his heels, looking defeated. 

“Say,” Steve licked his lips apprehensively. “Say you’re mine.”

Loki blinked and Steve thought he hadn’t understood. But it only took a moment for the blank expression to change into one of interest. 

“I’m yours,” Loki tried. Steve’s shoulders sagged. Loki could see his disappointment, though he did his best to hide it. “I…,” he started again, breathily, sensing the nature of this game. “I’m yours.” He wrapped his hand around Steve’s shaft and dragged out the word as he gave him a firm stroke. The warm flesh stiffened under Loki’s hand. “These hands are yours,” he went on, punctuating the words with sharp flicks on his wrist. “This mouth –” He leaned in close enough that Steve felt his breath on his thigh. In spite of himself, he shuddered.

“Then keep talking.”

“– it’s yours.” Loki’s voice was deceptively smooth. “What would you have it say?”

“Tell me you want this,” Steve asked him. Make me believe you want this, he thought. Make me believe I want this.

“You want this,” Loki told him gently. As if it were the simplest thing. “And so, I want this. Because I’m yours.” Steve stifled a gasp as he felt himself grow harder. “My body, if you want it. My life, if you would take it. As you’ve said, you gave it to me.”

“But I took –”

Loki hushed him. “You can’t take what’s already yours. You can just use it. So use me. Please.”

It only took that last, broken word and Steve knew he wasn’t the man he’d thought himself to be. Not in the least. Not when his blood ran hot to hear Loki plead. 

“Shall I show you all that’s yours?” Loki offered. He reached for the hem of his tunic to pull it over his head but fumbled and lost his balance. He slumped against Steve’s leg, his head drooping heavy on Steve’s thigh. “This is yours,” Loki mumbled, clinging to Steve as though that were the only thing keeping him from falling. Maybe it was. “See what you’ve made?”

His tone was as breathy and soft as before, and it shot straight to Steve’s groin. Even though the words stung. “I see,” he said, in a stranger’s voice. He reached down to pet Loki’s head. Loki leaned into the touch, and it might have been a sigh or a sob that  
shook his bony shoulders.

“Then own it.”

It was a gift, not a challenge. 

“Get on the bed,” Steve told him. He spoke more harshly than he’d meant. But just as harshly as he’d wanted to. 

Loki couldn’t. A part of Steve realized it as soon as he had spoken. But something held him in his place and he watched Loki struggle to obey. Bracing himself between Steve’s legs, he managed to push himself up the first time. Then his head spun and he fell back to his knees before he could think to find his footing. The second time he got his hands up to Steve’s shoulders. For just one moment their eyes met. It was Loki who looked away. The shift in focus cost him his balance and he collapsed into Steve and onto the bed. He tried to wriggle his legs the rest of the way up the bed. Steve watched the pathetic display until he could no longer stomach it. Then he reached under Loki’s tunic and pulled him up the rest of the way by his trousers. Loki landed on all fours, his arms shaking as he tried to hold the position. Steve put a hand on the small of his back to steady him. 

As he watched Loki struggle to stay up, Steve wondered why he didn’t just let himself fall. Then he realized – Loki was waiting for permission. Steve’s cock twitched in response. 

“You can lie down,” he said huskily, and Loki’s arms gave out. 

“Thank you,” he sighed. Steve was painfully hard now, and tugged at Loki’s waistband to reveal his pale flesh. Steve tensed, but save for a trace of red around the rim, there was hardly any trace of Thanos’ brutality. He reached for the bottle of oil and Loki let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he repeated. 

Steve slicked himself down, hissing with pleasure as he rubbed the oil over his throbbing manhood. He dribbled the dregs onto Loki and lined himself up against him. Then he hesitated. Loki angled his hips to receive him, but Steve still held back. His head hanging low, Loki inched backwards to press up against Steve. 

“Please,” he rasped. “Please. I’m yours, only yours. I’m no one. I’m nothing. Nothing but yours. Take me, claim me, use me and throw me away. I’m – ” his words ended in a startled cry as Steve thrust forward without warning. His hands on Loki’s hips, he pounded into him, lost in bliss. Lost enough to believe that Loki’s moans might be pleasure. That somehow, he did want to be owned, taken, used. Steve came.

He shuddered and let Loki drop. Steve closed his eyes as he slid out of him, and took a deep, satisfied breath. Then he smelled the blood. His eyes snapped open. Loki lay still, his blood smeared between his cheeks. He turned his head slightly to look up at Steve. There was only a faint trace of discomfort in his bleary eyes. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, this time sincerely. Slowly, fearfully, Steve looked down at himself. Loki’s blood was drying on his cock, staining the front of his britches and tunic. He stared at the sight in horror. You want this, Loki had told him. And he had. 

“Give your master,” he began. “Give your master my…” His mouth went dry. He couldn’t call this love. 

“I will,” Loki told him softly.  
 


	8. From the Journals of Bruce Banner, Gentleman Adventurer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another two chapters for you this week, and the end is kind-of-sort-of in sight - if I actually stick to a writing schedule. Comments definitely encourage me to do that ;) Enjoy!

Midnight had come and long since gone, and the festivities showed no sign of waning. If anything, Thor’s housecarls grew rowdier. There are more than many in this frigid country who would speak well of a feast only if blood and ale are spilled in equal measure. Thor’s housecarls certainly revelled in this spirit, smashing drinking horns as they rose up to meet their shield-brothers’ challenge and grapple until the fight left them spent. Then these many drunken battles gave way to embraces as they mourned yet again their fallen kinsman and prince.

None took so well to this brutal custom as Rogers, once he emerged from the bedchamber. There was a murmur at the frightful sight he made, with his strained visage and another’s man’s blood staining his clothes. He took a proffered drinking horn and drained it. And scanned the hall until he spotted Thanos’ broad back. He made for the big man then, calling out a challenge as he came. Thanos glanced over his shoulder, and seemed on the whole unperturbed. He congratulated his fellow’s manhood and spirit, and dodged Rogers’ first blow with ease. Rogers’ only answer was to rail against him and flail until Thanos pinned his arms to his sides and held him there. He thrashed, and struck his brow against Thanos’ nose and jaw, and Thanos at last released him. Wiping the red specks from his eyes, Rogers seethed and demanded what manner of man Thanos was, that he could break a creature so broken further still. There was a mocking glint in Thanos’ eye when he answered Rogers: ‘The same manner of man as you.’

I was certain Rogers would draw his blade, and in his maddened rage Thanos would make short work of him – friend or not. But Rogers merely shook his head, again and again. Thanos clapped his shoulder and bade him sit and drink, but Rogers could not bring himself to do it. He stood quite still by the long benches, until a cry from the bedchamber roused him. The men had not ceased indulging in the night’s main merriment – indeed, several of the housecarls, emboldened with heady honey liquor had made their way in and out the curtained door. Some quicker than others.

Hearing them, Rogers all but fled the hall for the cold, black night beyond. I thought to follow him, for we had shared some kind words on the journey here – and, truth be told, it was not easy to hear some of what was said, and slurred and moaned within that hall while sober. But Heimdall, seated by my side, held my arm to the table. Gently, he bade me let Rogers go. Some truths are hard to face while another stands there watching. The somber set about his eyes kept me to my place. 

I questioned him then, instead, about this custom and its provenance, and what new strangeness the dawn might bring. He wove me a fine tale – which I shall presently recount. There is to be a ship, laden with gold and riches, and at its prow Thor’s bier will be set. He will be armed and armoured, his hammer firmly in his cold and pale hand. By him shall stand – as best as I can translate the word he used – an angel, with shades upon her shoulders and a dagger in her hand. She waits for the scar-lipped slave, who will be brought to her on a bridge of sturdy hands (here my translation, though precise, does little to make clear the meaning). When he stands at last before her, she will spill his heart’s red blood to bring the flush back to Thor’s cheeks, and draw out his final breath to fill the great ship’s sails. Then, from the shore, a thousand bowstrings shall let loose a thousand arrows, and a thousand tongues of fire shall set the ship ablaze. It is along this stream of smoke that Thor and his slave shall sail, until they reach the long grass of the windy plain of Gimlie, where the gates to Valhalla wait.

As fair as such a tale may be, I struggled to believe that it should even slightly resemble tomorrow’s proceedings. More than likely it shall follow in the same noble spirit as this feast, rich with the glories of warriors parading in trousers that hang half undone while flesh strikes flesh at the back of the hall and from time to time – still, even after so many – from time to time, a man screams.

I did not share these thoughts with Heimdall. His furrowed brow – and the many empty cups before him – made it clear he did not need another voice to echo his dark musings. It was not, I thought, the rite itself which troubled him, but the matter of the scar-lipped slave at its center. Were I a kinder and less curious man, I would not have asked to know his thoughts. But I had journeyed too far to be incurious, and for too long alongside Stark to be called altogether kind.

Heimdall regarded me with some unease, and at last said he knew little of the slave. But, he offered, he would tell me of a boy. Loki, he called him, and spoke of him with the soft sadness reserved for the dear and dead. A clever, reckless, winsome youth who tested the oath Heimdall had sworn his father and made himself as difficult to guide and watch over and guard and, frankly, care for as any a boy could make himself to be. Yet care for him Heimdall had, and did. As much as he could bear to. 

He finished the cup he had been cradling and brought himself to his feet. I was left to wonder, as I watched him make his way to the bedchamber and brush past Valkyrie to vanish behind the curtain. What manner of men are we, indeed?


	9. Watch Me Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: feels, and nothing worse than what's already happened

Heimdall hadn’t bothered to wait his turn. Valkyrie had tried to stop him at the door, but he had pushed on past. If she’d made him wait, he wasn’t sure he would have come inside at all. The dread of it had been gnawing at him since the feast began. But now, behind the curtain, he thought perhaps he should have listened.

Loki lay face down on the bed, propped up by a bolster and by Freyr’s bruising grip. His trousers were in a tangle on the floor where they’d been thrown and his tunic, now torn across the shoulder, rode up to the middle of his back as Freyr kept thrusting in. Heimdall couldn’t see Loki’s face – only the long, black hair spread out across the pillows. He could see the blood, though, thin streaks of red running down Loki’s pale legs. Freyr steadied himself with one hand against the small of Loki’s back. The other pawed freely under the tunic, running up and down Loki’s spine. Heimdall watched Loki shudder as Freyr angled himself deeper. The young housecarl’s throat was flushed, and he threw his head back to moan as Loki clenched around him.  


Heimdall knew he shouldn’t stand there. Either he should slip back past the curtain and wait for Freyr to finish none the wiser, or he should act. Move. Grab the youth and toss him out into the hall. What then – Heimdall couldn’t be sure. Act again, keep chasing that fire that was burning up his bones. But men did not call Heimdall hot-blooded, or rash. Some did not even call him brave. They called him wise instead. Careful. A man who looks so long before he leaps that, sometimes, he forgets to leap at all and only stands there. Watching.

Freyr shifted again, this time leaning so far forward that his belly was near flush with Loki’s back. He pressed his hands into the mattress on either side of the thin shoulders, and his arms shook as he picked up his pace. Heimdall saw Loki flinch and heard him whimper, but Freyr didn’t slow down. And soon Loki stopped. He turned his head, and Heimdall saw his dull, unfocused eyes. A bit of spittle dribbled out the corner of his mouth onto the pillows. At first, Heimdall wasn’t sure if Loki saw him at all – or if he was already too far gone. Then he caught the glimmer in those frightful eyes, and the corner of Loki’s mouth crooked up. It might have been a smile. It might have been a sneer. Freyr’s next thrust tore a cry from it either way.

With Loki watching him right back, Heimdall found he couldn’t keep still. He strode across the room until he stood behind Freyr, and hesitated. Loki looked at him and nodded – or maybe he just turned his head. Maybe Freyr had just shaken him. Maybe he wasn’t looking at Heimdall at all and – no. He nodded. Heimdall held his gaze and tapped Freyr’s strained shoulder. It took a few less-than-gentle taps more, and a loud clearing of his throat, before Heimdall got the youth’s attention. Freyr rolled his shoulder, and glanced up, and only in the next moment realized he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought. He jolted back with a startled little cry, and skittered up against the wall. One hand tugged at his tunic and the other at his britches as he tried to cover himself.

“Forgive me,” Heimdall laughed. “It sounded as though you were done.”

“I… I,” Freyr sputtered. Heimdall waved his hand idly.

“No matter. Finish yourself off and get back to your brothers, before they start to wonder why you stayed so long.”

“I… it’s better when it’s long, though?” he asked weakly.

Heimdall snorted. “With a pretty girl, sure. But if you take much longer here, Fandral won’t let anyone hear the end of it.”

Freyr turned somehow redder than before, until his nose and the leaking tip of his cock were nearly the same shameful shade. He turned his back to Heimdall and braced one hand against the wall, while jerking frantically with the other. Heimdall waited a beat.

“Boy!” he barked, and Freyr very nearly jumped out of his skin. “Careful of the wall hangings. You wouldn’t want to explain to the Lady Hela how those got stained.” Freyr dropped his hand as if the wall had burned him and looked desperately back at Heimdall.

“I need… somewhere,” he gasped, teeth clenched.

Heimdall picked at a hangnail, and didn’t so much as look up. “The bed’s filthy as it is,” he commented.

“But you said…”

“I said get on with it,” he snapped, and swallowed a smile as Freyr hurried to obey. 

On the bed, Loki had rolled onto his back. He watched the little show Freyr made, leaning over the corner of the mattress and rubbing himself off. Heimdall thought he saw Loki snicker. Finally, Freyr finished. Eyes fixed on the floor, he did up his britches and made for the door.

“And the words?” Heimdall called after him.

“Give your master my love,” Freyr mumbled, without looking back. Heimdall burst out laughing as the curtain behind him swung closed. He forced himself to laugh louder – loud enough for two – and kept it up until he finally heard Loki’s dry chuckle.

“Tha’ wass cruel,” Loki sighed. “He… not so bad.”

“It’s not as if you always picked bad men to make fools of,” Heimdall said. “Just easy ones.”

“Easy… yes,” Loki blinked slowly, as if opening his eyes was an effort. Heimdall crossed the room to sit on the bed beside him. “Don’t,” Loki mumbled. “S’a mess.” Heimdall sat down anyway. Loki winced as the mattress moved.

“Sorry,” Heimdall said quickly. “Do you… should you –”

“Doesn’matter.” 

Heimdall nodded. He supposed there weren’t that many things that mattered at this point. Instead, he reached for the akvavit Valkyrie had left in the chest beside the bed. Loki watched warily as Heimdall drank a mouthful and grimaced at the bitter taste.  
He shook his head when Heimdall offered him the bottle.

“It’ll help,” Heimdall told him. 

“Don’t need more help,” Loki said. Heimdall huffed, and pressed down on the mattress by Loki’s thigh. Loki gasped in pain at the jostling movement. 

“I’m not asking if you need help,” Heimdall said. “I’m helping.”

“Why start now?” Loki grumbled. But he took the bottle and drank, and didn’t spit the liquor out. 

“Better late than not at all,” came Heimdall’s half-hearted answer. Loki’s head lolled to the side and he looked at him with disbelief. 

“Iss’t?” When Heimdall gave no answer, Loki tried to take another drink. He couldn’t quite time when to swallow it, and the clear liquid spilled down his chin and onto his chest. He looked at it, confused. “Didn’think you’d come,” he admitted quietly. 

“Do you want me to go?”

Loki shrugged. “Doesn’matter,” he repeated. He had nothing else to add, and there was little else Heimdall dared ask. So they sat, with only the sounds from the hall and Loki’s weak breaths between them. 

“You could have told me this was your plan,” Heimdall said at last, when the silence grew too thick. 

“You don’like it,” Loki concluded. 

“No,” Heimdall admitted. “I don’t like most of your plans.”

Loki wheezed a laugh. “Last plan then,” he grinned, and raised the bottle as if to toast. Heimdall took it from him before the liquor spilled. 

“You should have told me all the same. I would have…” Heimdall trailed off, uncertainly. Loki waited for a moment for him to finish before he shook his head.

“You’d… the same you did,” he finished. “You always do the same. Doesn’matter what you know. Doesn’change.” Heimdall had been told as much before, but from Odin it had been praise. It was not praise when Loki said it. “Why did you come?” Loki asked him.

The question startled Heimdall. He hadn’t, he supposed, quite put it into words himself. “You need to ask?” he said, baffled. Loki frowned, but didn’t interrupt him with an answer. “It’s not as if I’ll have the chance to speak with you tomorrow.”  
“You had plenty of chances,” Loki muttered. “So tomorrow I’m dead. What difference’s that to you?”

“Loki,” Heimdall said sternly. “Stop. If it made no difference, I wouldn’t have come.”

“So go.”

Heimdall pinched the bridge of his nose. “I forgot you were impossible,” he said, exasperated. “I came to say goodbye. Will you let me do that, at least?”

“You should have said it years ago,” Loki said bitterly. “You left me. You didn’t stop them when… if you want me to say you’re blameless –”

“What does blame have to do with anything?” Heimdall snapped. “I’m sorry this happened, but I’m not apologizing. I’m sorry the path you chose ends here. But you chose it. There’s no blame. Will you really go to your death hating me?”

Loki didn’t answer. Heimdall couldn’t tell if it was because he lacked the strength to speak, or simply had nothing to say. He waited a while longer, but he knew Loki was stubborn. There wouldn’t be an answer. And maybe no answer was best. Heimdall sighed, and stood. He turned to face Loki and, deciding all at once, knelt down by the bedside. Loki opened his mouth as if to speak, but Heimdall shook his head. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Loki’s brow. He held the kiss only for a moment. There were still so many words unsaid. Instead of any of them, he said, “Give my love to your fool brother.” And because he was every bit as wise as men said, he left then, without looking back.


	10. Red Flags Parade

“You great oaf! Get off!”

Fandral’s shout was the only warning Tony got before the man crashed headlong into the bench. Tony’s ale sloshed over the table and down his front. He spun around in his seat, one hand on the dagger at his side. Fandral had already staggered back to his feet and. Howling, he charged Volstagg. The big man lurched out of the way and Fandral fell against the table across the aisle.

“Easy,” Volstagg cackled. “Don’t come then. I’ll tell the fellows not to ask how much you love Thor when they see you on the morrow.”

“Fuck off,” Fandral snarled.

“Well put,” Volstagg said, laughing. He made to grab at Fandral again, missed, and waved his hand – still laughing – as he made his way to the room at the back of the hall. Fandral swore and dropped onto the bench. He grimaced as he watched Volstagg disappear behind the curtain.

“What?” he snapped, when he saw Tony looking.

“Nothing,” Tony shrugged. Fandral wasn’t convinced. “You’re not…?”

Fandral snorted. “Not with that fucker.”

“Not your type?” Tony joked. Then readied himself for the blow that usually followed such jokes. But Fandral only shook his head. He said nothing, only reached for someone’s half-empty mug of ale and stared down his nose at the brew. He took a silent sip. Tony had never been good with silence.

“You know,” Tony began. “I was down the river this one time and there was this tribe, the Draugr. When one of the Draugr dies, they cut the body into bits, and cook it into a soup. And it’s all the whole village eats for six days!” Fandral still gave no reply. “Long way of saying, you folks have figured out the funeral business.

“You like our customs, then?” Fandral asked.

“Sure,” Tony said.

“Your friend does not,” Fandral commented, nodding down the table to where Bruce sat, struggling soberly through the evening.

“Bruce? Bruce is a smart guy. Really, brilliant, But when it comes to a good time, he’s an idiot.”

“And you’re a wise man, yes?”

“With sex?” Tony waggled his brows. “Very wise.”

Fandral snorted. “So what are you still sitting out here for?” Tony looked back at him blankly. “Go fuck the fucker.”

“Is that,” Tony licked his lips. “I thought it was a ritual thing. Bruce said it was, anyway – no strangers allowed.”

“Like you said, your Bruce is an idiot. Go,” Fandral grinned thinly. With his eyes narrowed to slits and his teeth showing, it wasn’t a pleasant kind of grin. “He’ll enjoy a fresh face.”

“You lying bastard,” Tony said – good-naturedly – as he leaned on the table at Bruce’s side. “You didn’t want me having a good time tonight.”

Bruce scarcely bothered to glance up. “Your brand of a ‘good time’? Certainly. I’d much rather you arise sober and in the morning that we might continue with our journey – now much overdue -”

“Oh, save it for the journal,” Tony groused. “I’m going to enjoy something worth writing about.”

“Tony… What? Where are you…” Bruce tripped over his words as Tony left him for the bedchamber. “Don’t be a fool!”

“Oh, come on,” Tony sighed. “It’s just some fun. Try it, once in a while.”

He ignored the rest of Bruce’s concerns and knocked against the doorframe to get Valkyrie’s attention. She rolled her eyes up at him expectantly. Tony cleared his throat.

“Is he…?”

“Give Volstagg a minute.”

Right on cue, Volstagg swept aside the curtain. “Give me,” he called over his shoulder, “all my love. All of it.” He finished the phrase with a hiccup.

“You actually managed to give him any love?” Valkyrie remarked. “Or just more ale?”

“There’s other ways to love.” Volstagg swayed and grabbed Tony’s shoulder to steady himself. “See? This one knows what I’m talking about.”

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Tony told Valkyrie. She didn’t smile, though Volstagg laughed.

“Funny man, this one. Have fun, funny man.” He thumped Tony’s shoulder and wandered off calling for, “Lots of love!”

“So?” Tony turned to Valkyrie.

“Go ahead.”

Tony frowned. “Does he need some time to recover? Or – should I bring him some food or something?”

Valkyrie looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “Food?”

Tony swallowed. “Yeah. I mean, he’s been at it all night. I know I’m starving after, what, two or three rounds.”

“I… don’t think he has much of an appetite left,” she answered at last, slowly. Tony nodded and reached for the curtain, but Valkyrie seized his arm before he could pull it aside. “You know you don’t have to do anything here, right?” she said. “It’s not… you don’t have to. You’re not one of Thor’s men, so they won’t say anything.”

“Don’t tell me Bruce got to you, too,” Tony grinned. “Just because he can’t figure out how to have a good time doesn’t mean I plan to suffer.”

“A good time?” Valkyrie began. Tony didn’t wait for her to finish. He was too busy remembering the slender, dark-haired slave – too busy getting excited by the memory, anyway. The curtain fell closed behind him.

The smell of the room hit him first – rank sweat, liquor, and more blood than he cared to admit. Loki, lying naked on his side on the bed, didn’t seem bothered by it, Or, frankly, by much at all. His heavy-lidded eyes flickered to Tony as he walked up to the bed, but otherwise he gave no sign he’d noticed the “Hey,” Tony said, sitting down beside him. “I’m Tony. Bruce – my buddy, Bruce – he said your name was Loki?”

“Was,” Loki said, almost too softly to hear.

“Anyway, you up for a bit of fun?”

Loki blinked. “A… fun?” he slurred weakly.

Tony’s smile wavered. “Uh… yeah. If you’re still up for it.” He traced his hand down Loki’s spine and let it linger. Loki tensed as the touch moved lower.

“Not,” he muttered. “Can’t.” Tony moved his hand up above the small of Loki’s back.

“Fair enough. You’ve had a long night, huh? We’ll take it slow.”

He leaned down and tucked a strand of Loki’s hair out of the way. He traced his thumb along the ridges of the scars that lined Loki’s mouth. Loki didn’t move when Tony bent down to kiss him. His lips were cracked and tasted of musk, and after a moment he let his mouth fall open against Tony’s tongue. It was the closest he came to kissing back. Tony, busy running his hands up and down Loki’s sides and his tongue between Loki’s teeth, took a long while to realize that the man beneath him barely dared to breathe. He sat back and met Loki’s wide-eyed stare. Loki dropped his gaze.

“You – you don’t like that?” Tony tried.

Loki looked surprised. He parted his lips and breathed deeply. Then he turned to look back up at Tony. For a moment they were still, and Tony couldn’t imagine what he was waiting for. Loki didn’t seem to know himself. Finally, something like a smile tugged at the thin, scarred lips, and Loki reached for Tony. He had trouble gripping his sleeve.

“Hey,” Tony said. “If you’re tired, we don’t have to –”

“Come,” Loki whispered. “Please?”

“Fuck,” Tony sighed. He lowered himself back on to the bed, and kissed Loki once again. This time Loki tried to kiss him back, and they both felt Tony growing hard against his leg. “That mouth do anything else?” Tony asked, grinning. Loki answered with a weak little sigh, and a nod. He rolled himself to the side of the bed and fell to the floor, his head cracking hard against the packed earth. Tony scrambled over to where he’d landed. “Hey!”

Loki didn’t respond, only lay on his side on the floor looking at the curtain sway. He flinched when Tony reached down to touch him.

“Hey, hey!” Tony drew his hand back, palm open. Loki’s unfocused eyes glanced off of it. “I won’t hurt you,” Tony said gently. “I’m not… Can I see if you’re okay?” Even though he could already see that the whole situation was anything but.  He slid slowly down to the ground to sit beside Loki. “I’m gonna check if you’re bleeding,” he explained, and patted at Loki’s scalp. The brittle black locks caught between his fingers. “Good,” Tony said. “No blood, see?”

“No,” Loki whispered.

“Great,” Tony sighed. “Can you sit up?”

“Don’t need,” Loki said weakly. He heaved himself onto his side and laid his head against Tony’s knee. His hand fumbled up Tony’s thigh until Tony caught it.

“Yeah, no,” he said. “That’s something _I_ don’t need.” Loki hummed quietly and Tony felt the hand in his grip go slack. “Let’s get you back on the bed, so you can get some sleep,” Tony began. On the floor, Loki started shaking. He didn’t seem to notice the tremors. Tony saw his lips spasming around near silent words and leaned in closer to hear.

“Don’t leave me,” Loki pleaded. “Don’t leave.”

Tony wished he’d listened to Valkyrie. He wanted to hit something – preferably an Asgardian, right now. Instead he just squeezed Loki’s hand.

“I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” Loki croaked. “For all of it. I’m so– ” He heaved, and retched before he could finish.

Tony moved out of the way of the stream of dark bile that sprayed over the floor. “Loki, hey, it’s okay. Loki? Shit.” Loki coughed, heaved again, and vomited up the liquor that had made up most of his dinner. He fell forward, gasping, and nearly landed in the puddle. With his free hand, Tony covered his nose. He tried to ignore the sticky heat as some of the vomit seeped through his trousers. Beside him, Loki was shivering violently.

“Valkyrie!” Tony shouted at the curtain. “A little help in here?” A clatter answered him as Valkyrie peeked into the room.

“Oh for,” she groaned, seeing Loki. She hurried inside and went straight for the chest in the corner. She emptied her pouch into a cup of stale ale, and stirred out the clumps with her finger as she brought it to Loki. “Sit him up,” she told Tony. But Tony felt Loki tense, and grip his hand all the tighter. He watched the last of the fine green powder dissolve, and gagged at the familiar smell as she brought it closer. It reminded him of Obie, sitting by his side. Pouring the wine. Watching like a wolf as Tony drank. That feeling – half-floating, half-falling – as if he’d slipped from between his bones and was watching himself sink into sleep. That fear of not knowing if he’d wake back up again.

“You been giving that to him all night?” he asked.

“It’ll help,” Valkyrie said tightly.

“Who?” Tony snapped. “Not him. Maybe the next guy you bring in here to fuck him.” Valkyrie glowered, and slipped her hand under Loki’s head to tilt it up. “Look, my friend’s a physician. Go get him. He’ll help.”

“He just needs to calm down,” Valkyrie insisted. She jostled Loki’s head into place and brought the cup up to his lips. Loki clamped them shut. Suddenly, he winced, almost folding in on himself and pressing his hands against his belly. The ale, nearly black now, sloshed out of the cup and trickled down his chest as he shook.

“No,” Loki whimpered.

“It’s okay,” Tony reassured him. “You’ll be okay.” He turned back to Valkyrie. “Please? Just get Bruce in here. He’ll know what to do.”

“I know what to do,” Valkyrie snapped. “He just needs to drink –”

Loki keened, cutting her off. He curled up on his side, arms crossed tight across his stomach and his shoulders still shaking desperately. His breaths were too quick and too hoarse. Tony was standing before he knew it, and grabbed the cup from Valkyrie as he headed out the door. “Keep him awake,” he said. “I’m getting Bruce.”

He stormed off without giving her the chance to argue. The din of the hall was as loud as ever, but he hardly heard it as he headed to Bruce’s bench.

“Hey,” he said, setting the cup on the table. “You need to come with me.”

“I cannot begin to express how very much I’d rather not,” Bruce huffed.

“It’s Loki. He’s… he’s in really bad shape.”

Bruce frowned. “You’re surprised?”

“Honestly, I’m surprised he’s still alive. Valkyrie’s been feeding him this shit,” he slid the cup over to Bruce. “I’ve seen this stuff put down men twice his size, and that’s without the whole… the...”

“Abuse?” Bruce offered.

“Sure.”

“In which you were more than happy to take part.”

“Look, call me out for it later if you have to. I don’t want to leave him alone with that woman much longer. Coming?”

Bruce sighed, but nodded, and stood. He took the cup with him as he followed Tony to the bedchamber. Valkyrie had managed to tuck some of the furs under Loki where he lay on the ground. She stood when Bruce and Tony entered and planted herself between them and Loki, arms crossed.

“Sirs, I need you both out of the room. And I’ll take my cup back now.”

“Like hell,” Tony said.

“He’s in a lot of pain –”

“Yeah?” Tony snapped. “Is that because you’re poisoning him or you let like twelve different guys fuck him tonight? Because I’m losing count.”

“Including you?” Valkyrie threw back. Tony didn’t have an answer. “The draught’ll keep him from feeling the pain,” Valkyrie explained stiffly.

“As it’s killing him, right?”

Valkyrie hung her head. Her voice was soft when she next spoke. “He’ll be too far gone by morning to feel much of anything.”

“How does that make anything better?” Tony exploded.

Strangely, it was Bruce who answered. “Because come the morning, they’ll slit his throat and light the ship that bears him ablaze.” He glanced from Valkyrie’s troubled face to Loki, still holding his belly and moaning.

“Lady Hela doesn’t like to cut too deep,” Valkyrie said. “ I don’t know why. It’s not like she can hear them scream.” She stopped. “She’ll make sure his isn’t a good death.”

For once, even Tony was silent. Even if just for a minute. “Right. Well, we’ve got a few hours until morning but not exactly enough to sit around and chat. Bruce, you need to stay here with him but you,” he pointed at Valkyrie. “Is there a back door out of this place? Because I saw some dinghies by the river bank and if we can just get him on board the tide should take us way down river before anyone in here wakes –”

“Tony,” Bruce said firmly.

“– up. What! What?” Tony hadn’t realized he’d raised his voice, not until he heard himself shouting. “Don’t try to tell me you’re okay with this.”

“I doubt,” Bruce chose his words carefully. “I doubt very much that mine should be the determining view on the matter. Or, frankly, yours. It is not after all our lives, deaths or what may come hereafter that are at stake. If I may?” he nodded at Valkyrie. After a moment’s hesitation, she let him pass. Bruce knelt down beside Loki.

“Loki? Can you understand me?” By way of answer, Loki groaned. And nodded. “Do you understand what will happen to you tomorrow?” Again, Loki nodded. Bruce waited.

“Valhalla,” Loki gasped out, at last. “Valhalla.”

“This is ridiculous,” Tony muttered. “He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“Loki,” Bruce continued, ignoring him. “You don’t have to go to Valhalla. Nor do you have to stay here. Would you like to come with me instead? You would be a free man, free to go where you would after you’ve recovered. Do you understand?” Loki was already shaking his head. “You don’t understand?”

“I…” Loki clenched his jaw. “I understand.” He hissed a breath through another wave of pain. “I understand. Valhalla.”

“Bruce,” Tony warned. “I swear, if you –”

“Why?” Bruce asked. “What in Valhalla is worth all this pain?”

“I am,” Loki said weakly.

“Okay, Bruce?” Tony called. “Let’s move.” He tried to skirt past Valkyrie, but she wouldn’t let him by.

“Will you be so kind as to escort my friend to some other bedchamber?” Bruce told her. “Preferably one far from here, and with a door that locks?”

“You –” Tony made to step forward. Valkyrie caught him around the middle, and a quick kick beneath his knee sent him slumped against her. “Fuck!” Valkyrie followed up with a sharp blow to his belly. That was enough to get them to the door. “We can’t just let this happen.”

“It isn’t our place to choose, Tony.”

“Oh, the hell with that! Like it was your place to help me when Obie left me for dead? You helped me!  This is the same damned thing!”

“It is,” Bruce agreed. “Only you wanted me to help you live.”

With a final push, Valkyrie drove Tony back into the hall. She shouted at those few men still sober enough to stay on their feet, and soon there were too many rough hands pulling Tony past the benches, past the fire and into the dark. He landed on his back at the foot of the steps to the hall and watched the great oak doors swing shut above him.


	11. From the Journals of Bruce Banner, Gentleman Adventurer

I shall be the first to admit to the strangeness of my chosen profession. Many men – men like the man I am told Loki once was – understand leaving behind them their native lands in pursuit of wealth or glory or renown. Or in vain effort to escape. They understand a journey undertaken with conquest in mind, and understand themselves to be conquering heroes whose grand adventures (and often grander antics) must make the centerpiece of any tale of their travels that is to be worth the telling. With the exception of this brief passage, my travel tales – by design – tell precious little of me. I am no hero, but rather a witness, and I seek no praise or glory but only to see what I have not yet seen. To brush past lives quite unlike mine, which I pray shall remain brilliantly unremarkable from this until my final day.

Loki, I am convinced, would have been boggled by such sentiments as these even if his blood were not thick with poison by the time I met with him. For all his many regrets, leading a life that was noticed was not one of them. He was able to speak only a little – and little turned to less after I administered the final cup of Valkyrie’s tincture – but once he understood I meant to record his words, and that others might from reading these pages know that he had been, he made every effort to answer my myriad questions.

He was born the son of a great king, and grew to manhood in the shadow of a brother whom none doubted would make a king greater still. None save their father, and those unfortunate few who knew the tempest of Thor’s tempers. Let it come as no surprise that Loki stood chief among the latter. Perhaps only his elder sister Hela was so well acquainted with Thor’s rages, though she at least did not suffer Jarl Odin’s indifference. If ever Loki felt himself well-loved by any of his kin he did not say, though I should note that neither did he speak about the queen. He could not, and I feared it would be truly cruel to press him.

Lady Hela found some peace in married life, as her husband Surtr’s frequent and prolonged absences left her nearly a queen in her own right. Marriage lent her power over her husband’s domain unlike any she had wielded in her father’s home. For Loki as well, his wife brought him his life’s two greatest joys – Vali and Narvi. He did not speak of them overmuch, either. Being a wedded man changed Thor not a whit, and soon Jarl Odin’s frustrations with his eldest son drove him to issue the order of exile. For all the strife between the brothers, Loki wept the day Thor went away. A charitable man might say it was this grief that fueled the growing rift between father and remaining son. Loki was never charitable. The battles between them – first of words and wits, and then of swords – were always first between aging king and eager prince.

Eagerness alone was enough to twice rout Jarl Odin’s force and raze Surtr’s keep to the ground, sending Hela on a furious flight back into her father’s care. Loki told me they took days to find Surtr’s body in the smoking wreckage, and that it was only by his jewels that they guessed his bones were his own. Men said that when Queen Frigga heard the news of what her son had done, she locked herself away in her chambers and took to bed until one night, her grief stole her away. Loki’s successes, such as they were, ended that night. His failures began with Thor’s glorious return, at the head of battle-hardened troops that called him captain and spoiled for a fight. It wasn’t even a fight Loki could have won – not for the sake of his wife, or his sons. And with them gone, there was little reason enough to keep fighting for himself.

Loki’s story ended there, for the torments he had known since belonged not to Loki Odinson, but to a nameless, kinless, scar-lipped slave. Loki Odinson was long since dead. And when the morning came, with mist as thick as smoke rising from the river, what remained of him followed. This ritual was more subdued than all the rest of the funeral rites I’d seen performed in Thor’s honour. Valkyrie returned shortly after dawn, with a washbasin and clothing of plain, undyed wool. Loki’s eyes were closed by then, and he barely had the strength to keep his head up off his chest as she worked to wash and dress him. Valkyrie plied him with her last remaining bottle of akvavit, which he drank without complaint. Walking – even standing – were laughably beyond him by the time Heimdall arrived to fetch him to the pyre. The old guardian said nothing, merely slung Loki’s arm over his shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged him out the door. I kept a few paces behind them, as I could see Heimdall speaking the sorts of last words between troubled friends that do not belong in stranger’s journals. I am not sure whether by this point Loki was, in fact, able to hear.

The ship was not so grand as in Heimdall’s telling – Thor’s treasures, it seemed, were to be a few token coins and baubles, strewn over golden straw and silver birch. But he lay among them proudly, wrapped in his crimson cloak and with his hammer in his hand. From beneath the ink-black paint streaked about her eyes, Hela scowled as she waited by the bier and toyed with her long knife. Slowly, the housecarls staggered into their places, cursing the sky for its brightness and their fellows’ needlessly thundering footsteps. Thanos, as ever, seemed in good cheer while Fandral – likewise, as ever – glowered when Loki came near. Only Rogers had made himself scarce, but nonetheless enough men had sent their love to Thor throughout the night that he largely went unmissed.

I went to stand by Stark as the housecarls began the complex process of loading Loki onto the ship in his present state. Stark, still angered, refused to long stand by me. From opposing sides of the little harbor, we watched the housecarls hoist Loki hand over hand onto the drakkar’s deck. Then it was Hela who had him. She sneered at the body her men placed at her feet, and kicked at his side to confirm he was still living. Unfortunately, he was. She dragged the ungainly weight he made to the bier and, panting, hoisted him on top of Thor. She took her time slitting his throat, working her way up from his belly. Her arms were red up to her elbows by the time she decided she was done. Only Thanos dared take her hand to help her off the ship.

Until this moment, Jarl Odin had been noticeably absent. But now that the threat of watching his broken son butchered by his miserable daughter was past, he emerged, with his bow and a brace of arrows in hand. With help from a small army of torch-bearers, he set the ship alight. Once the mast had splintered and the topsail gone up in smoke and the brothers’ bodies were long since gone from view, I bid our goodbyes and began walking. After a few minutes, Stark followed.

Stark has said all of three words to me since we put Asgard behind us, and the first two are such as I would scarcely dare repeat even in rough company. But the third word he gave me was a simple, mournful, “Why?” I cannot give him the sort of answer he seeks, for what men suffer for faith and honor does not strike me as a choice. If they believe in Valhalla, then it is for Valhalla they must reach. The price will always seem too steep for those of us who cannot share in their belief. Whatever his ‘Valhalla’, I hope Loki found some form of it, in the end. If nothing else, I pray he found his peace.


	12. Sunshine

Loki felt the wet grass against his cheek as he woke. For once, that was all he felt. No pain, no hunger, no fear. No guilt. A furious wind roared through the plain and chilled him to the bone as it lifted him to his feet. When it stopped, Loki found himself still standing. He didn’t understand. His clothes were drenched in soot and blood, but he couldn’t feel the wounds. He touched a hand to his lips and found them smooth. His scars were gone. He scanned the plain, and looked to where the grass grew into a sky that was night and day and a thousand foreign stars all at once. When he managed at last to look away from the whirling constellations, he noticed the lone hall in the distance. At a nudge from the wind, he started walking towards it.

Thor was sitting on the steps, waiting for him. He looked as if he’d been waiting a long time. Loki tried to greet him, to ask whether this was the place. To ask for many, many other things. But the dead have already said all the words they will ever say, and the wind that blows between worlds stole Loki’s away. He closed his mouth, and the wind passed, leaving the plain silent once more. Thor stood, and reached for his hammer. For just an instant, Loki flinched back. But Thor only tied the weapon to his belt and made his way up the stairs to the doors of the hall. He opened them just wide enough for the brothers to hear the laughter, and the singing, and start to smell the endless feast.

Loki wanted to bolt up the stairs and head straight for the warmth inside. Instead, he watched Thor. His brother stood with one hand on the door, head bowed. Loki couldn’t have snuck past him if he tried. He didn’t want to have to try. Then finally Thor straightened his back, and glanced over his shoulder. His features softened into something like a smile.

He nodded.

Running faster that he had ever remembered running, Loki climbed up to the door of Valhalla. But even as he reached the topmost step he slowed, and stopped a few paces behind Thor. He was here, yes, and that was more than he’d dared hope. He was here, though not as a warrior. He bowed his head. His was a different place, and by now he’d learned to know it.

Thor’s hand felt heavy on his shoulder, and much warmer than he’d expected a dead man’s hand to be. Loki looked up uncertainly. Tired of waiting, Thor frowned, and pulled his brother forward until they stood side by side before the doors. Loki took a deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Thor was smiling. And that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooof. We got there. I needed a minute to recover after Endgame before I could get back to this fic, but I hope it was worth the wait :) Thanks for sticking with this ridiculously self-indulgent story. Let me know how you like the ending - comments and critique are my favourite things.


End file.
